


A Conflict of Interests

by prometheanTactician



Category: Mobsterswitch - Fandom, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, scout is a dumbass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-27
Updated: 2014-10-27
Packaged: 2018-02-22 20:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2521367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prometheanTactician/pseuds/prometheanTactician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scout is really sick of having to choose between his job and his boyfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Conflict of Interests

**Author's Note:**

> this is really shitty and I'll probably write some expanded, better version later.
> 
> Or, hey maybe not.

You’ve never been able to hold your ground against him. You’re obscenely lucky he doesn’t seem to have any overly malicious intentions towards you, because you’d never be able to stop him. You think you can, whenever he’s not around. You sit at your desk, the rest of the Company fucking around, Deadeye doing actual work, thinking about how next time. Next time you’ll turn him down. You’ll arrest him. You’ll do your fucking job. You’ll look him in the eye and tell him you don’t want to be with him, you don’t want to kiss him or sleep with him or wake up the next morning with him holding you like he does-

You fidget with the ring he gave you, with the design of tiny laurels. He has one with a scottish terrier on it. As far as you know, neither of you ever take them off.

You’re always so sure you can turn him away next time.

Of course the next time comes, however it does. Whether he’s waiting at your apartment or you go to his, or he corners you in an alleyway or you go drinking together. Next time comes, and all certainty of how decisively you’ll turn him down is replaced by the banter, that grin, the whiskey and that gleam in his eye. One minute you’re thinking of how to get past his magic to arrest him and the next you’re scheming ways to get him to hold you closer, kiss you harder. The scheming is all for naught, because eventually he just makes you outright beg for whatever it is you want.

You’ve tried other strategies than just sheer willpower. You’ve tried to convince yourself to hate him, telling yourself he’s playing you. It’s just a game to him, you’re a pawn for him like you were to Prospit. Next time comes around and you go into it angry and defensive. He lets it roll off his shoulders, kissing you soft and asking what’s wrong. You push him away and try to twist the look in his eye into something malicious and angry. He’s holding your hand. You can feel the ring he’s wearing and are reminded that you’ve never known him to take it off.

That strategy simply isn’t plausible.

You try to stay away from him, but the guy owns the city and that is doomed to fail before you even start with it. Still, you have to try. When that doesn’t work, you fall to your last resort.

He shows up to your apartment, all grinning and affectionate and you are immediately on the offensive. You’re a shouty guy, but you really outdo yourself here. You know him, maybe just as well as he knows you. You hit him where it hurts and you hit him hard. You push down the guilt that bubbles up at the flash of hurt that shows on his face just before anger replaces it. You want him to lash out, really hurt you so you can justify finally turning on him and taking him down. But he doesn’t. He seems like he wants to for a moment, like the magic is on the tips of his fingers, like he really wants to knock you for a loop. You brace yourself, but then he just turns and leaves. The door slams and instead of hope that your plan worked and he’ll stay away, you just feel sick and guilty.

It’s not even a day later when he’s at your door, all offended rage, demanding to know exactly what the fuck all that was about. You don’t know what to say. If he came back at all, you expected it to be him coming to slit your throat, not to talk shit out. Your silence pisses him off and he starts raging about how he didn’t do anything to deserve that, you were a total fucking ass, there was no call for it, he didn’t deserve it, you crossed a fucking line, he did not deserve that. What the hell did he do to deserve that? The question is pissed off, demanding, and you don’t know if that hint of vulnerability is just wishful thinking on your part but you think the fact that he hasn’t snapped your neck yet answers that question.

You’re just honest with him.

You tell him you wanted to drive him away.

He’s quiet for a second. He asks what the hell you’re talking about. You tell him you wanted him to stay away from you, so you were trying to make him do just that. He asks why you’d want that, and you can’t look at him now because he sounds more confused than angry. He sounds kind of lost. He sounds like the kid you grew up with before the war, though you know he isn’t Sol anymore. He repeats the question, yelling this time, but there’s a pretty obvious undertone of hurt and you really don’t know what to say. He demands you look at him. You do, and instantly regret it cause god, you’ve really fucked up. You tell him you don’t know, and it isn’t a lie, cause while you know you had a reason to begin with you really can’t remember it when he’s looking at you like you just killed his fucking puppy and set his best friend on fire. Which, really, his best friend does not need your help doing that.

You give up. You’re done. You don’t give a fuck about what you’re supposed to be doing or what Deadeye wants or what’s the right thing to do. You tell him you’re sorry. You’re an idiot. You tell him it seemed like a good idea at the time. You regret it, and you didn’t mean any of what you said. He still screams at you for a little while longer. You’re okay with that. He’s more than earned the right to lash out at you. He doesn’t stay and he’s still fuming when he leaves, but kisses you quick before he goes. He’s still wearing the ring, so you’re pretty sure you didn’t fuck up in any permanent way.

The whole thing is better left alone, anyway. You’re really getting sick of being left standing alone in a too quiet, too empty apartment with a slammed down resonating in your ears. That shit gets old fast.


End file.
